A Study in Chalk
by schnook
Summary: Not that he cares much for the past. It acts as a useful scapegoat, at least. At least she's still here. At least all is not yet lost. Rum./Belle.


**Title: A Study in Chalk**

**Show: Once Upon a Time**

**Pairing: Rumpelstiltskin/Mr. Gold\Belle **

**Summary: Not that he cares much for the past. It acts as a useful scapegoat, at least. At least she's still here. At least all is not yet lost.**

**A/N: Um, Gold is gold. Ha. See what I did there? See? **_**See?**_

**-x-x-x-**

By some order of denial, Rumpelstiltskin often found himself blaming his parents.

This is by no means uncommon – to neither the man in question nor people in general. You see, he had not always been like this. Rumpelstiltskin, in a sense, had not always been Rumpelstiltskin. For he was quite certain, at an inconsequential time some time ago, he had been born quite irrevocably and irreplaceably normal. He had been born at a perfectly acceptable hour within the twenty-four hour limit to the day, he had a perfectly expected and somewhat dull face of a baby child (if not a little pinched), and had thus lived a completely standard childhood – filled, no doubt, with minute details that matter little when there is a story waiting to be told. We will not loiter about with any superficial descriptions of childhood. We will by no means delay. His childhood, in short, had been, at best, below average with a mother who nursed and a father who often drank which most likely led to later issues of negligence and belittlement which most likely germinated a need for assurance and control and incredible acts of bravery which most likely led to the desire to attain-

No matter. Perhaps he needed to calm down.

To pinpoint where the trouble started, one must resist the infectious urge to blame one's parents. Difficult? Surely. Satisfying? Not in the least. But to preserve a strong, untainted grasp of the situation, it is detrimental. So, putting his wan-faced mother and golden-liquid-worshipping father aside (as a child, his father warned him it was pee. Needless to say, he is still somewhat resentful), he then shifts the blame to the Queen.

No surprises there.

(The dwarves think he has a _complex_.)

Though, looking beyond the complexities of complexes (and he is most certainly complicated), the bottom line was that he was most certainly the most feared and dangerous creature in all the Kingdoms (and the Kingdom next door was harbouring a fire-breathing _dragon_ for Pete's sake).

So why in the name of Merlin's beard was he leaning over his private wash basin, steadily intent on his garbled reflection in the glossy wood, testing facial expressions? It was absurd. Nay, _he_ was beginning to act absurd. Absurdity had unloosened itself and decided to wreak havoc on his humble (debatable) and quiet (very debatable) existence. He knew the usuals – he often liked to employ specific quirks in specific situations – there was the leer (strangely popular with the widows in the village), the snarl, the chortle, the swagger (always reassuring), the menacing growl, and his notorious ethereal giggle. Predatory, sagacious, whimsical. Taunting, haughty, theatrical. Always, always, always capricious. Which was probably why that upward tugging at his mouth last night had been so foreign. He could not seem to reproduce it now. No matter, really. He had never been one able to smile at command. He left his quarters.

"The thing is," his young friend, blue and sighing and shifting under a load of what appeared to be laundry. If that was indeed what laundry was meant to look like. He didn't really know. "The thing is," she heaved it upwards in the general direction of the stairs, just as he was coming down, "that word play is often overrated. However," she paused, as if forgetting what she was to say.

He blinked. A little. Perhaps a half-blink, if such a thing were allowed to exist. "Where are you going with that?" Bears his teeth, just as he practised. He quite purposefully avoided labelling the misshapen lump of _something_ settled in her arms. Vaguely, he felt threatened by it.

"However," she tried again, face disappearing behind the – the _thing_, voice marginally muffled. She paused, as if for effect. Nay, most probably for effect. He suspects he has been rubbing off on her. "I've hauled in the kill."

A beat passed.

"Not marginally impressive," he tells her dully, still through teeth.

She sighs, low and deep and dipped in honey. "I'm starting a new room. Downstairs. No windows."

"Try not to disturb the bodies, dear." He is half-joking. In all truth, he even surprises himself with the things he finds within these walls. Within himself. He wouldn't be that surprised if something did turn up, something he only recollects in his nightmares.

She just smiles, the little thing. Hitches up the _something_ to rest on her shoulder. Brushes past him. Immune. Or ignorant. He'll stick with ignorant.

**-x-x-x-**

**A/N: Wait, what? Yeah, short. It gives it charm (?)**

**Be warned. I'm visiting this fandom again as soon as I have time to write longer than fifteen minutes. Well, till then, my pretties.**


End file.
